Fly by Night
by XmagicalX
Summary: A short story featuring everyone's favorite Saiya-jin no Ouji, Vegeta.


A Dragonball Z story  
by XmagicalX ekarr@bowdoin.edu  
completed 5/2000  
  
This is the first anime fic I've ever completed...yet   
another attempt to peer into the head of a character who   
doesn't especially like his thoughts peered into.   
Introspection more than plot; this might even be waffy, as   
far as I understand the meaning of the term, and as much as   
it can apply to these characters...  
  
Dragonball Z and its people are Akira Toriyama's. Though I   
wouldn't advise telling Vegeta that.  
  
/////  
  
Fly by Night  
  
XmagicalX  
  
  
Even after this many years, sometimes it becomes too much.   
When every voice speaks a language not native to his tongue,   
and every face is subtly different from his own features,   
and every scent warns him of the alien nature of the people   
around him. He's learned to control it, somewhat. Direct   
the schizophrenic apprehension/terror/excitement of the   
strange, not toward battle-lust as he once did, but other   
outlets. Transformed to anger, he lashes out--only   
verbally, usually. He can't often afford its physical   
expression here. Humans are too fragile.  
  
Not his son. The boy is well past the age to fight. If he   
were raised as a true Saiya-jin he would have made his first   
kill by now. But he has no blood on his hands, and when he   
laughs it still has the ring of innocence. They train   
together, and train hard; he wouldn't spare his son, and the   
boy is old enough to understand the honor of a true attack.   
But outside of the battle...the boy looks so human, when his   
warrior's blood isn't boiling. The smooth light hair and   
pale eyes, identical to his mother's, for all that they are   
set in a copy of his father's face.  
  
There are times it shakes him, the simultaneous familiar and   
foreign being of his son. He is not alone; few humans are   
consciously aware of the difference, but they sense the   
boy's exotic nature. It repels some, fascinated others.   
The boy is too young to really be aware of the reactions   
yet, but he'll notice it soon enough.  
  
His mother, though, is all human. Yet manages to fascinate   
and repel all the same. A most bizarre creature, his mate--  
wife, she insists, though he never has fully grasped the   
distinction. It doesn't occur to him to admit his ignorance   
by seeking a definition. To know that one word annoys her   
more than the other is enough. He's careful to use the   
former.  
  
She doesn't quite understand why he does so much to irritate   
her, though she's fully aware it's deliberate. He has never   
made an effort to 'get along' with anyone, but with her he   
stretches his wits to new levels. It is a battle, not the   
type he is accustomed to fighting, but a battle nonetheless,   
and he will not lose. When she is truly angry, her fury   
peaking, she can almost look, almost sound Saiya-jin. She   
is no warrior, and never will be, but paradoxically the   
spirit of combat in her heart is strong. She will not lose,   
either; she will always find a solution, and surrender is   
never a choice.  
  
He fights with her for the sake of the fight, usually, and   
she returns it in kind. But today is different, and she   
sees it. "What's wrong?"  
  
"What kind of stupid question is that?"  
  
"The kind you ask someone acting like something's wrong.   
What's gotten into you?"  
  
"Me? What's gotten into you, woman?"  
  
"You're going around snarling at everything that crosses   
your path. Which is usual, except usually you're stomping.   
Now you're moping. What gives?"  
  
"What, what, what--you squawk like a parrot. You always   
want to know what's going on--if you're such a genius,   
shouldn't you know?"  
  
That hits, though how he doesn't know. "Bastard." She should   
be screaming it, but isn't. "Why does it always have to be a   
fight? Why are you always fighting? For once, can't you   
just..." She turns her head away, but her voice still   
catches even if she is hiding her tears. "I wish I knew...I   
want to know why..."  
  
This is a new tactic, one to which he has no ready response.   
With a wordless growl he pivots on his heel and marches   
away. Before he reaches the door, he stops, looks back.   
She's facing the window, arms crossed, her back to him. He   
growls again, and leaves.  
  
  
  
It's day still, and he wants darkness. So he flies away   
from the sun, the wind sharply cold against his face, until   
the golden glare is lost behind night's horizon. The ocean   
is black beneath him, a vast expanse spotted by the white   
curls of breaking waves, and faintly glowing masses of life   
bobbing under the shimmering surface.  
  
Why, they always ask why. As if it changed anything; as if   
it meant anything at all. He has yet to figure out why they   
ask it--realizing as well that his own question is just as   
meaningless. He has been on this world too long.  
  
But why do they bother, when clearly the answers are only   
invented to respond to the question? Justification,   
rationalization. As if there were anything truly rational   
about the very concept. Humans kill one another as much as   
the Saiya-jin ever did, but waste far more time pondering   
the implications of murder. They have to find reasons to   
battle. Excuses to fight. Patriotism, religion. Prejudice   
and honor. He will never understand any of it.  
  
Eventually the sea gives way to a different glitter,   
thousands of buildings radiant with artificial light. He   
slows as he passes over the city, predator eyes piercing the   
haze of smoke and luminance to watch the pedestrians on the   
crowded streets.   
  
In the center, a patch of darkness stands as a haven from   
the surrounding brightness, a false wilderness of paths and   
trees and shadows. He lands within the deepest glade of the   
park, as far as possible from the white circles cast by the   
streetlights. No one has seen him. Usually he would not   
care, but this night he keeps himself hidden, moving through   
the dark with a hunting cat's stealth.  
  
He hears them before he sees them, their footsteps loud on   
the paved path, quiet voices rising into the smoggy night.   
They are hurrying--not running, trying to hide their fear,   
but he can taste it in their whispers, their scent. An   
older couple, her gold hair streaked with gray, his black   
curls reduced to a fringe around his scalp. The woman's   
face is pale and she walks huddled close to the man. His   
arm is around her protectively as he glances back over his   
shoulder with wide dark eyes.  
  
The woman gasps as around them, out of the darkness, figures   
emerge. He sensed them already, watches unsurprised as they   
show themselves. Six, seven, eight, and there are twice as   
many still waiting in the shadows. They wear black and   
carry weapons, and think that stalking harmless, impotent   
prey makes them hunters. He curls his lip derisively.  
  
The couple halts as one boy steps in front to bar their way.   
He is tall, young but brawny, his close-cropped skull tipped   
back to glare down at them contemptuously. He stays silent   
while the others gather closely, muttering and jeering.   
With every cackle the woman jumps, and the black-jacketed   
youths laugh again.  
  
"Please," the man stammers at last. "How--how much do you   
want--" He fumbles in his pants pocket to pull out his   
wallet.  
  
The tall youth smacks the billfold from his hand with lazy   
scorn. "We ain't no turnpike. Shouldn't have crossed us."  
  
"Please," the woman breathes. "Just take our money, we'll   
leave--"  
  
"Not good enough!" the youth shouts, and the others echo   
him. "You gonna pay." He shoves the man in the chest with   
both hands, causing him to stumble. The woman steadies him.   
"Whatcha doing with her, trash?" demands the leader. "Nice   
white lady like this?" He puts one hand out toward her   
face. She shies back.  
  
The man pushes between her and the youth, fists clenched.   
"Don't touch my wife!"  
  
"So you think you're her husband? Freaks." He slides   
forward. The man swings, punch connecting before the youth   
ducks. He doesn't fall, only shakes his head and spits,   
then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Don't   
try that again," he snarls, and knocks the man down.  
  
"No!" the woman screams. "Help! Someone--" Two of the other   
boys grab her, one wrapping his hand over her mouth to   
muzzle her. A third pulls out a knife and advances,   
grinning.  
  
The man forces himself up and tries to go to her, but the   
leader slams him across the chin, then kicks him hard in the   
stomach. The rest of the gang have appeared to encircle   
them. They only watch, until the man, struggling up again,   
lunges desperately. He tackles their leader around the   
knees and brings him crashing down, but before he can strike   
him the others seize his arms and wrestle him back. Their   
leader punches the man again while he is held, then steps   
back. "Do you wanna watch?" he spits. "Why don't you   
watch." He swaggers toward the woman. The boy with the   
knife presses the blade against her throat, almost hard   
enough to draw blood, then dips to slice off the buttons of   
her blouse, one by one. The woman's shudders are muffled by   
the hand over her mouth.  
  
That is enough. He walks out of the cover and onto the   
path. Everyone freezes momentarily as they become aware of   
his presence, then shake it off. Fools. He sneers. If   
they had any ability they would understand that chill,   
realize the power pulsing against their own weak ki. But   
they're ignorant, and stupid. "Get out of here, chink," the   
leader says. "You ain't seein' nothing. Beat it."  
  
"Is that an order?"  
  
The boy laughs raucously. "It's good advice. Scram, shorty.   
Or we'll make sure you don't see nothing at all."  
  
He smiles. At least one of the gang is smart enough to see   
the danger in that expression, retreating as he pulls his   
knife. But the leader ignores it. "Just get. You want a   
fight?"  
  
He inclines his head, narrowing ebon eyes. "You actually   
think you can give me one, asshole?"  
  
The youth's face transforms into a mask of rage, and he   
leaps forward, a knife suddenly gleaming in his fist. He   
never touches his opponent; a fist against his torso knocks   
him flying backwards, with a sharp crack as a rib snaps. He   
slams against a tree and crumples at its roots, motionless.  
  
Some of the others roar with anger and charge. They all   
drop before they can see the blows that fell them. When he   
lowers his arm, not half a minute has passed. The black-  
clothed youths are scattered on the ground around him,   
panting, groaning, or silent. None are dead; he can feel   
their life still blazing faintly. But they will not forget   
their injuries for some time, if ever.  
  
Those of the gang who did not attack gape at their fallen   
allies, then run, vanishing back into the night. He doesn't   
bother to pursue. Released, the woman rushes to her   
husband's side, helping him stand while murmuring anxious   
inquiries. Only after he has reassured her does she look   
up, staring at their rescuer with her face whiter than   
before. "Thank...thank you..."  
  
"Don't thank me," he snaps, irritated by her timidity, and   
even more her naked gratitude. Doesn't she see how easily   
he could kill her and her husband? They aren't fighters,   
not even laughable ones like the gang. If he attacked them   
they wouldn't even know how to defend, not that it would do   
them any good. Stupid humans; why had they even been here,   
when it was so dangerous for them? "Go home. Quit wasting   
time here."  
  
"Sir," the man says, drawing himself upright with effort.   
"Thank you. If you ever...ever need anything..."  
  
His brow lowers further as he stares at them. The woman   
tugs her husband's arm nervously. They bow to him before   
continuing down the path, both glancing back once as he   
stands there, a silhouette outside the streetlight. He   
hears her whisper, "Who--who is he? Why did he..." The rest   
of the murmur is lost to the night.  
  
He waits on the path until their footsteps have faded into   
the darkness. There are others in the park, but none close   
enough to cross the pair's route. And none worthy of a   
fight.  
  
One of the fallen youth moans faintly as he regains   
consciousness, and with it pain. He blinks open teary eyes   
to see his assailant rise from the ground and soar into the   
black sky. When he has lost sight of the man's white boots,   
he shuts his eyes again, praying hallucinations don't mean   
his injuries are fatal.  
  
  
  
He flies above the clouds, under starlight clear and cold.   
In his mind's eye he sees the couple again, the woman's face   
turned up toward him in awed surprise, the man's open   
thankfulness. So soft, so weak. Not even worthy of being a   
prince's subjects. He has no subjects. Prince of a   
destroyed kingdom, last of a murdered people.  
  
A thousand thousand stars in the blackness overhead...they   
should all belong to him. His birthright, he the strongest   
of the strong, meant to take them all. Conquer all he could   
see, and his vision reached far. But he lives here, and   
rules nothing, not a soul of this feeble race.  
  
His power so beyond theirs, he could be a god to them. He   
could demolish their cities with a wave of his hand,   
slaughter the people as surely as his own had been slain.   
As he had intended, when first he came those years ago. He   
could end this world.  
  
But that would be pointless, when he has already once given   
his life to save it.  
  
He screams, to hear his own call carried away with the wind   
rushing past. To feel the power coursing through him, an   
affirmation of his strength. There is no one to listen   
here. He might have stayed silent, for all the sky   
responds.  
  
Then he hears an answering shout. Too late does he realize   
the voice is not his own; too late does he feel the force   
behind and above him, the ki carefully masked. He swerves   
to the left, twisting around, but not fast enough; the blow   
rams his side and sends him hurtling down into a cloud bank.   
Hidden within the thick fog, he steadies himself.   
Adrenaline washes away the pain of his bruised ribs and sets   
his heart pounding; red heat rises within, burning through   
him.  
  
Keeping his ki low, he reaches out to locate the other,   
finds his opponent and plunges up toward him. He bursts   
from the cloud just as the other swoops down to him. The   
face is clear in the starlight, but even blind he would   
recognize this man. He would never mistake this ki, so like   
his own and yet so vastly different. Nor could he mistake   
the laugh, as the other banks abruptly, releases a small   
energy blast to buffet him back, then shoots by.  
  
His cry trails behind him. "Taaaaaaag!"  
  
"What?" He takes off after the other, now only a speck on   
the dark horizon. But his ki is bright now, impossible to   
lose. He pushes himself to catch up. "Kakarotto!" he rages   
once close enough to be heard. "What the hell are you   
doing? Wh--"  
  
Barely in time he stops himself, before the question leaves   
his lips. Not his question, but a human's. There is no   
reason to ask it. Not of this one. There is no answer   
needed.  
  
The fire in his blood sings. He grins savagely, puts on a   
burst of speed and flips downward, aiming for his opponent's   
back, but the other realizes it in time to dodge, then   
responds in kind. For barely an instant they hang in space,   
exchanging kicks and punches faster than eyes can follow;   
then Kakarotto takes off again and he pursues.  
  
Flying, battling, they pass over the clouds, until the night   
is clear and the countryside spreads out below, rolling   
plains with houses burning like embers in the dark   
landscape. Then onward, into a storm, diving through   
roiling black thunderheads which rumble ominously at the   
intrusion. Electricity flickers around them, crackling with   
the friction of their combat. At last the lightning is   
released, a bolt arcing from sky to ground, the night for an   
instant brighter than day.  
  
He feels the raw power and cries aloud, raising his hands to   
the sky as he unleashes his own energies in an aura of gold.   
Kakarotto matches him in kind, black hair turned yellow   
fire, black eyes now glowing jade stars. They charge, and   
strike, and charge again, forces clashing in an incandescent   
corona.  
  
Far below, a couple of children peer out their porch window   
and marvel at the flashing clouds.  
  
The storm dies, but their fight continues, past the fields,   
past rivers and cities and long canyons, until the flat   
plains gradually rise again into foothills, then mountains,   
bare rock jutting up from the earth, past the clouds.  
  
If they are tired, neither would admit it, though they pant   
now as they breathe, and fly for longer between engaging one   
another. Their clothes are ripped, and both have shed a   
little blood. The sight of this fuels him if he should   
falter. His wounds are matched in his opponent, and he   
knows the other has not been holding back, any more than he   
has himself. They are equal.  
  
He will, he must, override the balance. Whirling suddenly,   
he kicks out, connects and drives the other down. Kakarotto   
smashes into a fog-draped rock face, cracking the stone, and   
is momentarily stunned by the impact. Not giving his   
adversary time to recover, he lifts his hands, palms-out,   
and concentrates his energy, gathering a fiery burst--  
  
"Stop!" The aura around his opponent dies suddenly, his hair   
settling in black spikes. He makes no move to defend   
himself. Caught off-guard, the attack would rip him apart.  
  
With an irritated snarl, he tosses the half-formed ki ball   
into the air, where it detonates in a harmless explosion of   
light. "What?" he snarls, eyes returning to black as he   
drops his own power.  
  
The other stands. "Thank you," he says, one hand behind his   
head.  
  
He probes his opponent's ki, finds no changes, no mysterious   
weakening, and senses nothing in the area to warrant the   
cessation. "What?" he demands again.  
  
"Look." Kakarotto points behind them.  
  
He looks. "I don't see anything."  
  
The other nods, an idiot's grin splitting his bruised face.   
"Wait." He floats to the top of the rock face to perch on   
the craggy tip, drawing up his legs to loop his arms around   
one knee. Then he gazes forward to the horizon.  
  
Glaring narrowly at the same horizon, he drifts down to the   
cliff's edge, crossing his arms as he stands beside the   
other. Impatiently, he waits.  
  
This high, the sky is gray and pure, the thin air suited to   
their lungs. Below, clouds shroud the range in misty gloom,   
paling with the lightening sky.  
  
Color seeps into the gray, gradually, then bursting forth.   
Suddenly the sky is dyed purple-red, the same shade as he   
was born under, and the man beside him was born under--  
though that one doesn't remember, and that sky exists now   
only in his memory. But remade here, as he watches.  
  
Between two sharp peaks shimmers a single ray of gold, then   
another. Pierced by the shaft, the clouds bleed crimson,   
and the world is set afire.  
  
"Beautiful, ne?"  
  
He nearly jumps, then curses himself. For an instant, he   
had entirely forgotten the other warrior's presence. The   
merest second, a distraction long enough to die--but he was   
in no danger.  
  
He says nothing, and the other stays silent until the sun   
has broken free of the horizon, no longer a lance but an orb   
in the pallid rose sky. Then Kakarotto stands, faces him.   
"Thank you for the spar, Vegeta." He smiles, good-natured   
as always. "You won, since I quit!"  
  
"Only a pause, Kakarotto," he replies. "We'll finish it   
later." A glint of dangerous humor sparks in his black   
eyes. "I'll finish you later."  
  
His rival laughs, with honest feeling, no sarcasm. "Oi! I   
better train hard! You won't want an easy win."  
  
"Never," he agrees, knowing he would never get one. Not   
from this man. One day he will excel; it is his blood, his   
heritage, his destiny. But it will take an effort beyond   
anything he has mustered, pushing beyond every limit he has   
even dreamed. It will take years--perhaps more than he has.   
A lifetime, or more.  
  
A lifetime on this world, among these people...it is his   
life now. His world, where the sky flushes violet and the   
storms rage with the fire in his blood.  
  
When he turns back, Kakarotto is gone, his ki so distant he   
must have teleported. For a long moment he stands alone on   
the mountain's peak, breathing the familiarly thin air.   
Then he steps off the edge and shoots toward the horizon,   
chasing the fleeing night.  
  
  
  
The building is dark and silent when he returns. Easily   
evading the guards of the grounds, both human and   
electronic, he slips through a window and enters his house.  
  
The boy has been put to bed. She's curled in an armchair,   
waiting up for him, a book fallen open in her lap while her   
sleeping head nods against the cushions. Sleeping in that   
position, she'll wake with a crick in her neck, and whine   
about it an hour after the pain fades. He gathers her up   
easily in his arms; she weighs hardly more than their son, a   
feather to his strength. He brings her to the bedroom; when   
he lays her on the bed she rolls over to face him, one hand   
wrapping loosely around his arm. Still asleep, she tries to   
tug him closer, subconscious natal yearning for a warm form   
to snuggle against.  
  
He could break away so quickly it would snap her delicate   
fingers, without effort. Instead he draws back, carefully,   
then pulls the gloves off his freed hands. Laying the white   
gauntlets aside, he smoothes back the pale hair to touch her   
face, cupping her cheek in his palm. Cool, her flesh under   
his bare skin. Her eyelids shift but do not open.  
  
"Beautiful, ne?" he whispers, a derisive imitation of   
Kakarotto's ridiculous inflection.  
  
She stirs and he removes his hand. "...came back," she   
mumbles. "'bout time."  
  
"It wasn't that long, woman."  
  
"Felt like..." Waking a little more, she blinks, then lifts   
her head to take him in. "Been fighting?"  
  
He smirks at the thread of worry in her tone. "Just a   
spar."  
  
"Hmph." She drops her head back to the pillow. "Hope you   
didn't permanently maim anyone. Go clean up. You're not   
getting blood on these sheets."  
  
In all the galaxy, she is the only individual who has ever   
dared command him so peremptorily. Sometimes he wonders if   
he lets her get away with it because he has no other choice.   
Frowning, he stands.  
  
Before he can leave she reaches out to snag his arm again,   
her grip tighter now, though no more effectual. He looks to   
her inquiringly without pulling away.  
  
"I'm sorry," she says. "Before, I didn't mean...I wasn't   
trying to get you mad. I just wanted--forget it. I'm   
sorry."  
  
In her own way, she has almost as much pride as him.   
Strangely, that makes it easier to say. "I'm sorry if I   
hurt you. Forgive me."  
  
Her eyes open wide and she sits up, staring at him. She   
opens her mouth, but a moment passes before anything comes   
out, and then the words are stilted. "I...apology accepted.   
Why...what...did you..." She takes a breath. "Do I want to   
know where you went today?"  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"Yes! I want to know. I want you to tell me."  
  
"Tell you? When you should be perfectly able to figure it   
out yourself? You should appreciate a challenge."  
  
Kneeling on the bed, her fists are planted on her hips as   
she glares at him. But there is something in her eyes,   
shadowed, not sparking with her fire. He crosses his arms,   
continues, "If you want me to spoil your game, I can. But   
don't say I didn't give you a fair chance."  
  
A tiny exclamation slips out before she recovers herself,   
and mutters, "You are such a..." She leans forward, and   
perhaps he does as well, for their lips meet. When finally   
they part, she is smiling, for all that she has smudged her   
clean hands on his stained clothes. And her eyes are bright   
on him.  
  
He smiles in return, knowing that this time, this battle, he   
has won.  
  
  
  
fin  



End file.
